


Faith and Sex

by Allemande



Category: Fleabag (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fix-It, Happy Ending, Humour, Just a little feelgood piece without a lot of plot, Nowhere near PWB's voice but hopefully amusing anyway, a bit of smut, but mostly love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 15:03:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20762315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allemande/pseuds/Allemande
Summary: God-/Stepmother's awful new exhibition brings Fleabag and the priest back together and she discovers that he's left the church. But why? And how in the world is she going to survive this week's event marathon at the cafe?





	Faith and Sex

Stepmother has outdone herself this time. An exhibition on „Faith and Sex“. It's almost as though she bloody well knows. No. There is no way she knows. It's just her new favourite subject, coupled with her old favourite subject. It's not about me.

I tried my absolute best to get out of it, organized several events at the cafe for this week, hoping that would give me an excuse (too busy to be attending a bloody garten party), I even considered opening the cafe on the day of the party even though it's always shut on Mondays, and really, who throws a garden party on a Monday afternoon? I thought I'd really done everything to get out of it, because I'm not ready, not mere six months after –

But then last night, my Dad and Claire called me within five minutes of each other and begged me to come because they didn't want to be alone with all those people and wanted to announce their pregnancy. (Respectively. Figure it out.)

So I have to go. And I obviously spend all morning trying to pick an outfit that neither says „recently had her heart broken and is desperate for a casual shag, but not with any of the dreadful bores or psychos she's met lately thank you very much“ nor „has sworn eternal abstinence because what's the bloody point?“

In the end, I go for the jumpsuit and the striped shirt, because it's my go-to comfort combination. Along with a stylish winter coat because it's bloody freezing out.

The party starts out fairly well, I keep Dad company while he mumbles half-finished sentences in the general direction of his wife's acquaintances, I smile and clap when Claire and Klare say their piece, I don't drink too much and I certainly do not scan the crowd for a familiar face, at least not more than once, well, more like ten times.

And then he's suddenly behind me, talking to Stepmother, and Claire has to catch my eye and point surreptitiously, which just goes to show.

“Remember my stepdaughter?” I hear her say, and compose my face into positive neutrality (whatever that means) just in time to turn around and greet them.

“Yes, of course,” he says and smiles at me, a little awkwardly, but not as though it causes him any pain.

It's passed, then. Of course it has.

“You two got along well last time, you chat,” says Stepmother, helpfully, and skips off to greet another of her 'extraordinary' friends.

“How are you?” he asks.

“Great,” I say, smiling in what I hope is a convincing way. “Great. Yeah. Great.”

He nods, his head bobbing up and down repeatedly, and I suddenly realize he's imitating me, the bastard. He's not wearing his collar beneath his coat, but a white shirt with two buttons undone, and I am _not_ looking at his collarbone and I will _not_ show that I'm aware of it by saying that he should wear a scarf.

“So basically, you're doing great,” he says.

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“That's great.” I can't tell whether he's amused at me or just grateful I'm not going to make a scene. Oh fucking hell. This is going to be even more awkward than I thought.

“You should wear a scarf. It's freezing.”

“It is, isn't it,” he says, pulling his coat around him more tightly. British convention of talking about the weather in lieu of real subjects: check. Actually –

“Do the Irish talk about the weather as much as we do?”

“Er. Can't remember, actually. Haven't been back in ages.”

Oh. Right. He doesn't get along with his family.

“How are you liking the exhibition?” I gesture around us.

He nods slowly, studying the paintings very seriously as though they're proper museum pieces and not, well, basically low-rate religious pornography. “Interesting. I like that one over there.” He points to the one by the stairs that shows a woman kneeling by a (thankfully empty) cross, but her head is just a leeetle too close to where the other person's crotch would be, and all around her are people watching her with orgiastic expressions on their faces. Yeurgh.

“Thy kingdom come, that sort of thing,” he says.

I laugh despite myself. Damn.

So we stand around making increasingly less awkward chit-chat, and I'm thinking that maybe we could be friends after all, when Stepmother comes back and drops the bombshell.

“Oh! darling,” she says to the party's latest addition, a 6'3'' transvestite wearing a leopard print dress and a green wig, “you have to meet the wonderful man who married us! Such a _unique_ perspective on faith, all the more now –”

“I would really prefer if you –” the priest interjects, but if there's anything she's good at, it's talking over people.

“ – that he's left the church!” she says triumphantly, and I drop my glass.

“Oh!” she exclaims theatrically and stares at me, then quickly recovers as one of her minions immediately bounds over to help me clear up the mess while the priest-not-priest and I studiously avoid eye contact.

Trying not to cut myself as I clear up shards of glass, because that would just make my day, I half-listen as she explains to him about her new friend and his/her (I never know which one to use and neither does she) “beautifully tragic struggle” with Catholicism all the while being a transvestite or transsexual, I can't work out which because she keeps muddling them up, and frankly in that moment I can't bring myself to care. Meanwhile, the priest-not-priest keeps trying to get a word in edgewise, finally succeeding with:

“I haven't left the church, actually.” And just as I come back up next to him, he briefly locks eyes with me. “Just the priesthood.” He quickly looks away again and says, as though to himself, “I did say I was hoping not to talk about that today.”

“Oh! I'm sorry, darling, so you did,” she says, not looking sorry in the slightest. “But everything's better when it's out in the open, isn't it?” She nudges her tall friend, who laughs sycophantically and starts up a conversation with the not-priest about the Catholic church, and even though he keeps glancing my way, looking as though he'd like to elaborate, I decide that it's all too much and quickly say my goodbyes.

* * *

He's back at the cafe the next day, and although I'm secretly thrilled, I'm also really busy because of the bloody event I organized, originally to get out of the bloody garden party. It's taking me all my powers of concentration to get the decorations just right, and I definitely don't need a distractingly hot ex-priest in a Divine Comedy shirt to, well, distract me.

“Your sister did tell me you were really busy this week,” he says apologetically, standing by the door while I make last-minute arrangements to the tables. Honestly, Tacky Tuesday – what was I thinking?

“She did?” I ask as the information finally sinks in. Bit of an odd thing for her to say to the man she knows I've been (not!) pining for for the last six months. I guess she was trying to protect me?

“But then she also described this week's events to me in great detail and made it sound like I had to check them out.” He sounds amused. I can't look at him right now, I'm counting plastic hearts and wondering whether there should be more or less.

“Definitely more,” he says, and I stare at him. Did I say that one out loud again or has he just become even creepier than before?

“Right,” I say, adding a few here and there. Finally, I dare look at him. He looks infuriatingly comfortable next to all the tat I put up. “Look, I don't mean to be rude, but –”

“You need me to fuck off,” he says, nodding. “Okay. Can I come back later?”

Jesus. No. “Sure.”

“When do you close?”

“Round five.”

“Right. I'll be back round five.”

Two hours later, I am thoroughly regretting this whole scheme, although the customers seem to love it – but that means they've started adding to the decorations by hanging up baubles and streamers and throwing glitter that I'll never get out of the fucking floorboards. I've just stepped outside for a quick breather when I see the most wonderful face I've seen in days.

“Hello, darling,” says Belinda, gives me a peck on the cheek, takes my fag from my lips for a quick puff and replaces it. “You've got glitter in your hair.” She looks past me into the crowded cafe. “What the actual fuck?”

“Tacky Tuesday.” I shrug. “New event. I needed an excuse to get out my stepmother's garden party yesterday. The plan was to have so much coming up this week that I couldn't go. Except then I had to go anyway, so...”

Belinda takes one long look at me, then pulls me into a very tight hug, where I dissolve somewhat.

“What's wrong?”

I sniffle in a slightly undignified manner as she pulls back, and check my makeup in a hand mirror. “Hot priest was there.”

“Oh God.”

“Yeah. Except oh not so God anymore, because he's quit the priesthood.”

“Fucking hell. Do you know why?”

“Nope.” I take another long drag from a new cigarette she's lit me. “Didn't exactly give him time to explain, though.”

“How so?”

“I, er, may have bolted right after finding out.”

Belinda chuckles. “Can't blame you. Arsehole.”

He's not, of course, but she's a good friend who knows when ex-lovers need to be called arseholes, crybabies or psychos.

Belinda's short visit revives me enough so that I get through the rest of Tacky Tuesday without throwing a Christmas bauble at anyone's head. I've almost finished tidying up and, after a period of checking the clock obsessively every two minutes, I make myself stop. Maybe he's not coming after all.

The door chimes behind me.

“How was it?” He asks, smiling nervously as he stands by the door, in pretty much exactly the same spot as this morning.

“Tacky,” I shrug, and he laughs. “But good.”

“Excellent. Ooh, is that still on?” He points at the coffee machine.

“Absolutely. Espresso?” I do remember that morning after, sometimes a little too clearly.

“That would be fucking amazing.” He sits down, suddenly looking exhausted. “I spent all day finishing up accounts.”

I digest this for a moment as I make us both double espressos (incredible but true: did not find time to make myself one during the day) and sit down with him.

Fuck, he's still gorgeous. Even though he's looking a bit too thin these days.

“Accounts? For the church?” I finally ask.

“Yeah. Lots of odds and ends to tie up before I go.”

I'm confused. “But you said you hadn't left the church, just the priesthood.”

He winces slightly (I may have handled a sore spot a little too harshly there, oops) and looks at me warily. I think he's expecting me to yell at him any minute. Good thing I'm way more mature than that these days.

“Right,” he finally says. “But I am leaving that specific parish. I just meant that I'll still be a Catholic.”

What happened? is on the tip of my tongue, but is it too early?

“How are you?” I ask instead. “Only I realized I never actually asked you that yesterday, in between all the admiring of paintings and smashing of glasses that I was doing.”

He laughs. And then, in the space of three seconds, a change comes over him, and he suddenly doesn't look as peaceful and unflappable as he did yesterday, or this morning. In fact, he looks incredibly lost and hurt, so much so that I want to scoop him up and put him to bed, or run him a hot bath or something.

Jesus, this was there the whole time behind that mask? This man is way too good a liar for me to involve myself with him any further.

“How am I?” he echoes. “Honestly, I have no fucking clue.” He shrugs, smiling at me. “I'm happy to see you, that one's for certain.”

I smile back, trying for the non-simpering version. “That is nowhere near a proper answer.”

“Says the woman who will not answer a single question about her private life,” he shoots back.

“Touché,” I grin.

“Shall we get a drink?” He points at the clock. “Might as well. It's past five and I've been a very good boy all day. Mostly because my maths skills are even worse after a couple of G&Ts.”

We go to my favourite after-work pub round the corner (not that I go very often, but sometimes friends, or Claire, will pick me up and we'll have a quick drink there).

We raise our glasses once more to Tacky Tuesday, the worst invention since guinea-pig cafes, and talk about mostly harmless things first, like my stepmother. Wait, did I say harmless?

“She came by a lot, actually, while she was researching her paintings,” he says, and I restrict myself to clenching a fist under the table, because honestly, _she_ got to see him while I had to avoid him? Unfair.

“But I had to ask her to stop coming to mass after a while,” he adds, looking amused.

“Let me guess. She kept questioning the parishioners about their sex lives?”

“Pretty much,” he laughs. “Which got even more awkward in the wake of – anyway.”

Oookay. I refrain from comment this time, just take another sip, smiling at him, but he knows what I'm thinking anyway (what's with that?) and shrugs apologetically, his eyes telling me that he's not quite ready to broach the subject, viz. the reason for his leaving the church. (I've worked out by now that it wasn't me, flattering though it may have been.)

We talk about anything but, for the next hour: Brexit (“Bunch of fucking wankers – maybe I should go back to Ireland, although come to think of it, too many wankers there too”), the new off licence on the corner (“They sell Monkey Gin from the Black Forest, it's weird but good”) and climate change (“Do you ever wonder why God gave us enough creativity and brain power to build machines that would ultimately destroy the world he supposedly created?” – that last one was me, in case you hadn't guessed). He asks about my sister and expresses his delight in seeing her so happy, though he refrains from slagging off his ex-parishioners Martin and Jake, he's too fucking good for that, and oh God I still like this man way too much.

We're both nice and plastered by the time the pub closes, and we stand outside shivering, smiling at each other in a silly way.

“We need to get you somewhere warm,” he says, pointing at my coat which is admittedly too thin (but dead sexy thanks very much). “Your place is closer.”

Jesus Christ, is he coming to mine?

“I'll walk you there if that's okay. I can get a cab once I've safely seen you to your door.” Oh. (Cue me doing sad puppy dog eyes.) He's setting very clear boundaries despite his advanced state of drunkenness. Not good.

But once we're there, he comes in anyway, “for a last quick drink if you've got anything in,” and he is in luck because I do have an enormous stack of comfort gin.

We sit down, him on the couch and me on the chair, and there's an awkward silence, made slightly better by the fact that we both find the awkward silence hilarious, but slightly worse by the fact that I'm trying not to fall in love with him again.

“Okay,” he says. “A question for a question. How does that sound?”

“If you're trying to turn this into some sort of parish meeting...”

“Far from it,” he laughs. “More like a drinking game. We take turns asking each other questions, and the other one has to reply truthfully. Except if there's a really good reason not to, and then he or she has to drink a shot.” He glances at the bottle on the table. “Of Gordon's. Oh for fuck's sake.”

I laugh. “I don't make the rules. Apparently.”

Ouch. He seems to have taken that one as a bit of a subtle dig about our general relationship, even though I was only joking. But I guess there's a bit of truth to every joke.

“So what do you think?” A peace offering. I consider the bottle. “Okay. But I have a bottle of Hendrick's that I usually reserve for really special guests.”

“Now you're talking!” He rubs his hands together, and I feel his eyes resting on my back (my bum?) as I get up to fetch the other bottle.

“You start,” he says once Hendrick's and shot glasses are installed. He is looking way too gleeful considering we're probably about to ask each other very personal questions – but maybe he really wants to talk about it and was just looking for a good excuse to make himself do it.

“You done?” he asks, calling me back from that other place that only he has ever known exists, and is that a fond smile he gives me?

“Right,” I say. Nice and slow. “When did you decide to leave? Your church? and your position as priest?”

He purses his lips, thinking. “Always hard to put a date to decisions, isn't it? But I sent my letter of resignation three weeks ago.”

“Oh!” I can't help but say. It's not been that long then.

“Yeah. Add to that about two months of dithering and beating myself up and you've just about got the gist of it.” His frown disappears as remembers that he now gets to ask me a question.

“Have you always wanted to run a cafe?”

A feeble start, and he acknowledges as much with a shrug and a smile, but I guess he's just getting warmed up, like me.

“Not really. But I wasn't sure what I wanted to do with my life and then this idea was born out of a drunken evening with a friend of mine.”

He nods, and I expect him to inquire further, but he just gestures for me to continue.

“Oh. Right. Have you thought about what you want to do now? Work-wise?”

“Thought, yes. Come to any sort of conclusion, fuck no.” He sighs. “I might go back to teaching.”

“You used to be a teacher?”

“Ah ah – one question only.” He laughs. “What happened between you and your sister?” I shake my head, not sure what he means, and he elaborates, “I mean, before. You seem to get along well now. But when I first met you, you were like... I don't know, like there was a wall of ice between the two of you.”

“More like a mountain.” I laugh. “I don't know. I mean, I know what it was that night that you and I met. The last time I'd seen Claire before that, we had a fight. Martin -” I suddenly remember that he used to be in his parish. “It was about Martin. Whom I've never been a huge fan of, as you may have worked out by now. But Claire and I had problems before that. It was never one single thing that happened though. We're just really different and have different priorities in life.”

“Right. I know what that's like.”

“You mean with your brother?”

“My pedophile brother, yes. Different bloody priorities right there.”

We laugh.

“Your turn,” he says. “I'll be a good sport and not count the last one.”

“Very gentlemanly of you. What did you use to teach?”

“English. To horny teenagers in Essex. Worst fucking school ever, though I think I would handle that better now that I've seen what adults are like.” He smiles mischievously. “What did the last person you slept with work as?”

I am briefly tempted to reach for a shot glass, but then I think, what the hell.

“Lawyer.” Creepiest lawyer I ever met, to be precise. And she definitely didn't make me come nine times.

I hesitate for a split second, but again, my alcohol-fuelled brain says 'what the hell?' “What about you?”

He smiles, and it hits me somewhere between my stomach and my loins. “You know the answer to that one. She runs a cafe.”

Well, you never know, I think, but don't say it. I don't want to sound bitter.

“What's your relationship with your dad like?” he asks.

Oh for God's sake. I think I prefer questions about sex. I mumble something indistinct (just like Dad would, really) about it being really difficult sometimes having a Scottish dad who can't talk about his feelings and who, for some reason, has fallen in love with a woman who's much younger and much more open about... well, everything. Then, there's silence.

“Go on,” he says. “Ask me.”

“Okay. Why did you leave the church?”

Without saying a word, he gets up, pours himself a stiff one, downs it in one and sits back down, grinning at me. I roll my eyes.

“What happened to your friend?” he asks.

I copy his actions, and he laughs. “Ask me again.”

“What, the same one?”

“Yes.”

“You want to get absolutely shitfaced, is that it?”

“I won't drink this time.”

I think he really does want to tell me about it.

I repeat the question, and he closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. “Okay. Fuck. I haven't actually talked to anyone about it. I mean, I tried, in the parish, but nobody really wanted to listen.”

Shit, now I'm really worried. “What happened to you?”

He opens his eyes. “To me? Nothing. I was just the guy who found out about things that happened to other people. And who then had to convince people to give a fuck, except nobody did.” He sounds angry, and tired, and I really want to hug him.

He sighs and gets up, pouring himself another drink. “Rules of the game don't say I'm not allowed to drink and talk,” he winks.

“If you say so.” I hold out my hand, and he pours me another one.

“Yeah, so... I found out about a parishioner who...” He closes his eyes again. “He's been in the parish for ages. And he's really active in the community and organizes all these amazing field trips, and everybody loves him, even the women he...” He covers his face in his hands. That's it, I can't take it anymore. I get up and sit next to him, laying a hand on his back, and he leans into the touch.

“I was supposed to help them,” he says into his hands, which are still covering his face. “Except I made everything worse.”

“I'm sure that's not true.” (I wonder how long it's okay for me to leave my hand there.)

“Well, they say I did. The women. Apparently everything was fine, everyone was well, and then I had to come and tear everything out into the open, and now they have to deal with all of this shit on their own...”

“How many women?”

“I know of four. Who knows whether –”

“And how many of them told you what you just told me?”

He sits back up and smiles at me ruefully. “One.”

“Well, there you go. The others will probably thank you in the long run. Did you report it?”

“I had to,” he says, looking at me imploringly as though my absolution would help (how fucking ironic). “I couldn't not say anything. Fat lot of good it did though. The church, or to be precise, the people working for the Archbishop, would have preferred for me to keep my fucking mouth shut. And after exchanging tons of fucking letters and even going up to his fucking office in person and pretty much always getting the same bullshit story about forgiveness and kindness and letting sleeping dragons lie, well...”

“You left.”

“Yes.” And just like that, he starts to cry.

The weird thing is that (a) I don't mind this time, holding a weeping man, although I used to detest it when it was Harry, and (b) I manage to suppress all sexual thoughts for the time being. I put him up on the couch for the night, and we sleep (separately).

* * *

My alarm goes, and I reach for the clock blindly. Fuck, too much to drink, too little sleep, not good right before – oh shit, Chatty Wednesday.

I drag myself to the bathroom, trying not to make too much noise in the process, because unless I dreamt all of it, there's a hot ex-priest sleeping on my couch.

“Good morning.” He's up, smiling at me and, unless I'm very much mistaken, eyeing my outfit appreciatively. “Can I come help you at the cafe?”

“Er... you don't need to.”

“I'd like to. Or would you rather I didn't?”

“No! That would be lovely.” I check the time. “But, er. I'm running a bit late, actually. Do you want to come on over later?”

I leave him with a spare pair of boxershorts (they're mine, actually) and a spare toothbrush (I'm so organized these days) and head off to work, with the biggest hangover and the silliest grin plastered to my face.

Chatty Wednesday goes as well as it can with a hangover, let's just say I'm glad when it's over. Hot ex-priest comes by for a couple of hours, which is lovely and a bit exciting because my regulars keep eyeing him curiously and one of the girls gives me the thumbs-up behind his back. Then he remembers that he has a meeting to go to (catechism, whatever that actually is, still doing that till the end of the month), then comes back later just as I'm locking the cafe door.

We stand in front of the cafe, both unsure what to do now. Then, he jerks his head in the direction of yesterday's pub, and I laugh.

We have a couple of drinks there, then he suggests dinner.

“How was catechism?” I ask as we're safely installed at a very busy and only marginally romantic Italian. “What is catechism?”

He smiles at me fondly. “My favourite atheist.” (His! his?) “Basically, teaching the bible and Catholic doctrine to children.”

“Ah. Brainwashing.”

“Yup. Putting the fear of God into poor unsuspecting young'uns.” He looks at me as though I'm a puzzle he would really like to solve. “So did you never get any religious teaching at home?”

“Nope.” I shrug. “I guess there was a children's bible somewhere, but I was just never interested in it. And my parents never encouraged it.”

“Fair enough.” He studies his red wine speculatively. “I guess one of the reasons I became a priest was because it had already been written onto my genes – or my brain, if you prefer – in my childhood.”

“What's it like, being back at the church now?”

He shakes his head, staring into his glass. “Pretty fucking weird. I mean, I still love working with the kids. But whenever I meet an adult now...” He raises his glass, then says “I met one of the women today.”

“The one who told you off?”

“No, another one.” He hesitates again. “I _think_ she was trying to thank me. If I understood her correctly, she actually appreciates that I tried to talk about it, but all the same, she'll never talk about it again.”

“Weird.” I shake my head. “What was it, by the way? Assault?”

“Rape.”

“Fucking hell.” I lay a hand on his arm. “I know you're going to say you're not the victim here, but I'm sorry anyway.”

He smiles, covering my hand with one of his own. “Thanks.” His eyes don't leave mine for a long while, and there's an army of butterflies trying to escape from my stomach. “I'm really glad I talked to you about it. I feel a lot better already.”

“Can I ask you another big question?”

“Another one?” He holds up his wine, swirling it as he squints at me through the glass. He might also be pulling silly faces, it's hard to tell. “After last night's big one? I think you owe me a big one first.”

I sigh. “All right, fine.”

The big question arrives and I finally tell him about Boo in a rush. He says nothing for a while, but then just strokes my back, and it doesn't even look as though he's judging me.

God, I love him.

“Your turn,” he smiles.

“Right. A follow-up to last night's big one, actually.”

“I like follow-ups. Go on.”

“Will you try to become a priest somewhere else? In another parish?”

“Ah.” He smiles at me slightly, and is that hope I see in his eyes? Or is it just wishful thinking? “An entirely unselfish question, that one?”

“Absolutely. I'm interested in your life choices. In a disinterested sort of way.”

He laughs and takes a big gulp of wine. After a moment, he says, “No, I don't think I will. I might try and look at the C of E. Church of England,” he adds as he sees my clueless face, and chuckles. “The other one.”

“Right. Those guys.”

“And girls, actually, these days.”

“I like them already. Do they have -” I hesitate. For fuck's sake, don't rush him.

“Celibacy?” He guesses correctly anyway, and I nod. He grins. “No. Not if you're straight. Like, there are gay Anglican vicars and their relationships are tolerated but only if they remain celibate. If it's a man and a woman, it's fine.”

“Two out of three ain't bad.”

“Yeah. Although I _think_ that Anglican vicars, if they're in a relationship, are mostly expected to marry their partners. Depending on how conservative their parish is, I guess.”

Why is he telling me all of this?

“Just laying all the facts on the table,” he shrugs, as though answering my question. And then he looks at me and says, “Here's another one. I still love you.”

I stare at him, for a little too long because he lowers his eyes, looking crestfallen. “Oh. You don't.”

“Yes,” I say emphatically, reaching for his hand. “Yes, I do.”

And then we kiss. Passionately. In the middle of a crowded restaurant.

We pull apart just long enough to call for the bill and tell the grinning waitress that yes, we would like to take our nearly untouched food with us, and we stumble outside, noting once more that my place is closer, and he wraps an arm around me and doesn't let go the whole way there.

We barely make it through the door before we grab at each other like hungry wolves, and I manage to deposit the takeaway food somewhere (possibly the floor?) before we pull down each other's pants and he fucks me against my front door.

I don't know whether you've ever done it in that position, but it's incredibly hot, slightly messy, and not very orgasm-inducing, at least not for me, but I don't mind because I get to grab his arse and watch him as he comes completely undone fairly quickly. (Honestly, no wonder.)

“I love you,” he mumbles into my shoulder as he leans against me.

“No declarations of love in a post-coital state, please.”

He gives a little (post-coital) giggle. “Fair enough.” He lifts his head and kisses me, slowly, tenderly. “I'll try again later. Sorry, by the way. I er... I didn't exactly wait for you.”

“It's fine.” It really is. I don't care for the whole 'everyone always has to come, and at the same time if at all possible' thing. “You'll pay me back later.”

“It's a promise,” he smiles.

But for now, we put our clothes back on and eat.

“I'm sorry about the marriage thing,” he says after a while.

“Marriage thing?”

“The thing I said about Anglican vicars having to get married. Possibly. I'm not sure about that, actually. At any rate, I didn't mean to pressure you or anything.”

“Didn't run off, did I?” Don't expect me to go anywhere for the foreseeable future, in fact. “Anyway, it was my fault for asking you leading questions about your future.”

“True. Try not to be so fucking nosy, will you?”

I throw a paper napkin at him. He crunches it up into a ball and throws it into my face. I get up, pull him into an upright position, and we kiss hungrily (no time for dessert), and not two minutes later I'm riding him at a gallop, him on the sofa and me on his lap, him grabbing my boobs, me holding onto his shoulders as I drive him further into me with every movement of my hips, and suddenly we're both crying out at the same time, and just as I thought I was done he pushes into me again and a second wave washes over me, and I close my eyes and collapse on his chest.

Oops. So much for not caring about simultaneous orgasms. Actually, let's have more of those.

Remember how he said last time that if he slept with me, he would fall in love with me? Well, if I hadn't already been head over heels, this would have done it, because the sex is incredible. In retrospect, I realize I've been spending too much time with egocentric maniacs and have forgotten what it's like to be _listened_ to, physically and emotionally. How in hell (or possibly in heaven) did I manage to bag such an absolute sweetheart? Who's also outrageous and filthy and fit, in both senses of the word, because I am well and truly exhausted by the time we fall asleep, but happier than I've been in a long, long time.

* * *

I wake up to find him next to me, supporting his head on his arm and smiling at me.

“Good morning, gorgeous.”

Could I have that every morning, please?

I kiss him in lieu of a response.

“Sleep well?”

“I did.” I lie back, my yawn kind of contradicting my own words. “I always do after major exertions.”

He smiles mischievously. “I'm glad to hear you're feeling rested. Because I wasn't quite done when you dropped off.”

And then he goes down on me, leaving me completely incoherent.

“Fuck,” I say when I regain the ability to speak. “Don't expect me to reciprocate. I'm not even properly awake.”

“Plenty of time for that later,” he smiles, looking possibly just a bit proud of himself. “Unless you've got another event scheduled for today?”

“Not today. I am hosting a birthday party tomorrow though. And have to prepare a ridiculous amount of canapes today.”

“Not right away, though?”

“No, not right away.” I give him a huge smile, I can't help it, he's here and he's in my bed and he's in no hurry to get away.

He smiles back. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” And because I will never entirely stop being a troublemaker, I add: “Do you love me more than God?”

“Fuck off,” he says, and leaves it at that.

THE END


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